Richenfeels
by I-Married-My-Fandoms
Summary: Was given the prompt "Richenfeels. Idk what words, um... OH! I has two! Scarf and Heart." And then my friend who sent me the prompt gave me a depressing vid to watch. ANGST! SUPER DEPRESSING!


THIS IS REALLY DEPRESSING. IF YOU DON'T WANT TO CRY, DO NOT READ. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOU ROSE!

Was prompted "Richenfeels. Idk what words, um... OH! I has two! Scarf and Heart." And then she sent me something depressing to watch… this WAS going to end up happy… but nope… So then I wrote another one… Which has smut… and fluff. Read that one too entitled "Back Alleys and Bees".

John looked down at his lap. A frown marred his tired face as he rubbed his thumbs over the soft fabric. The piece of cloth had lost the scent that had made it special a long time ago. It had been three years since the owner had worn it. John's hands trembled as he clutched the scarf tighter, desperately trying not to cry again. He had cried into the soft fabric one too many times while clutching it to his face, pressing his nose deep into the soft folds to inhale the sent of the man who had left him strung out.

"Sherlock…" John's voice was a whisper in the empty room. The flat at 221 B Baker Street hadn't changed much. Things had been moved around, Sherlock's things moved into his room. John couldn't bare to part with them… just in case… just in case there was a miracle. The body parts had been disposed of, and in the proper way, only because John was concerned for his and Mrs Hudson's safety because of possible air born bacteria and infections.

John stared down at the black and blue wool, lifting it slowly and rubbing it across his face. The texture was familiar and slightly comforting. It gave him courage. It gave him something to cling onto. He distantly heard the door to the downstairs flat open and close. He ignored it. He also ignored the hustling sounds of Mrs Hudson as she greeted whomever it was that had come it. It didn't matter to John any more. He hands were shaking. His shoulders were shaking. He was biting his lip and had succeeded in tearing a hole in it, leaving a trail of blood to slip down over his chin. John reached down next to him, retrieved his service revolver and cocked it. He placed it in his lap, pulling the scarf up, tying it around his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see was something of Sherlock's… The last thing he wanted to see was Sherlock…

The muzzle of the gun felt cold pressed against John's skull, below and behind his left ear, pointed upwards to let the trajectory give the maximum amount of damage with the minimal amount of blood spatter. John took one more calming breath before releasing it, and pulling the trigger as he did so.

—-

The gunshot was deafening. The house nearly shook with it and Mrs Hudson shot a look, frightened and surprised at the stairs leading up into 221B. Her gasp was loud and quick, she almost didn't realize it was hers. Before she knew what was happening, the person who had entered the house not but five minutes previous shot past her, running up the seventeen steps to the higher flat. She clutched her heart, tears welling in her eyes and already spilling down her face… she knew what was going to happen. She went for the phone… hastily dialling 999…

—-

Sherlock stopped when he threw back the door to the living area. He had finally finished. He had destroyed the web of the Napoleon of Crime and he could finally come home… He had been chatting to Mrs Hudson for a few moments, offering to take her back into her own flat and grab her a cup of tea to calm her nerves when the shot and gone off and frozen Sherlock in the spot. Now… now he had flown up the stairs, throwing back the door and swallowing the thick lump in his throat.

The blood was something that he hadn't expected. He was shaking. John… his John… was…

"No… no… John…" Sherlock ran over to the couch and shook him, the scarf falling off of John's eyes. Sherlock was hyperventilating. How could he be late… John had waited all this time and now… he was late… because he took five minutes because he had to talk to Mrs Hudson. The tears were unexpected. Sherlock had convinced himself that he couldn't cry any more because he hadn't done so in such a long time. And now his heart… he felt it breaking. He felt it shatter. There was only one option…

The gun easily fell from John's still warm fingers. There was a full magazine and Sherlock cocked it, ignoring the blood at the muzzle. He sat down next to John, grabbed John's right hand in his left, laced their fingers together, and then pressed it against his skull, behind and beneath his ear. The trigger felt light as he pulled it.

The second gunshot shook the house almost more than the first did.

But at last… at last the two were together again.


End file.
